Lurking Madness
by MsMonochrome
Summary: All that time Desmond's been spending in the animus is starting to affect him, he's talking to people who aren't there, and he isn't sure he cares anymore. Rated T for talk of mental issues.
1. Chapter 1

Something I started working on before What If? was even a concept I had. I just find the bleeding effect interesting to write about, I guess. Not sure if I'll continue working on this, it depends on how I feel and whether or not people like it.

* * *

Wake up at six, small breakfast, go into the animus at six-thirty, break and lunch at noon, back into the animus at twelve-thirty, dinner at eight, training, walk around Monteriggioni for ten minutes, bed. That was the schedule Desmond had followed for god knows how many days; he couldn't remember what day it was anymore, whether it was a weekday or not, and in the hideout there were no windows for him to use as a clock. While he was inside the animus he relived Ezio's memories, but he wasn't really paying attention to them anymore; he wasn't controlling the Assassin's body, his mind was just along for the ride, and it was as if he were watching a movie rather than reliving history.

His time outside of the animus didn't matter, it was just there to keep his body alive and functioning, so he wouldn't drop dead before playing whatever role he was being trained to play due to malnutrition or dehydration. It didn't help much that he was only allowed to leave the claustrophobic wreck of a hideout for ten minutes each night, it was the only time where Desmond actually was able to feel the wind on his skin, smell the scents of wood smoke and baking bread, and remember what it actually felt like to be alive.

Then one of _those two_ would start talking, and his carefully composed daydream would fall apart like a house of cards in a windstorm, from whole to a wreck in mere seconds. Lucy had said that hallucinations didn't indicate danger unless he was seeing them for longer than five seconds, and the two men with him had been there since he'd left the animus half an hour ago. What did that mean?

"What is it?" He found himself asking the night air, knowing full well that nobody was there and that the figures were just a part of his delusional brain. Tonight the bartender had scaled one of the walls of Monteriggioni and sat on the cold stone, his legs dangling over the houses far below him, breathing out puffs of foggy air into the darkness.

"You are troubled," It was Altair who spoke, and it was not a question but a statement. Desmond had learned that the elder Assassin felt no need to beat around the bush when getting straight to the point of things was so much easier.

"Really? I had no idea, thanks for enlightening me. Any other words of wisdom for me today o wise one?" He was sick of both of them, although Ezio occasionally made jokes, and more than anything else, even more than he wanted to never get in the animus again, he just wanted them to leave him alone. Their presence was like the retreating tide on a beach, indicating that a huge, uncontrollable wave of trouble would crash into him at any moment. With each trip back in time the bartender could feel himself slipping somewhat, losing his grasp on what was real and what was someone else's memory. It was like dangling over a pit of water on a rope that was already frayed; the madness was already there, lurking around the edges of his mind, and all would take was the slightest disturbance to send him past the point of no return.

If he had been able to tell someone his concerns it might have helped some, at least Desmond would learn whether or not the bleeding effect was getting bad enough to mimic the crazed behavior of subject 16. If he was going to start painting the walls with his own blood he would appreciate knowing just when that would happen to him. He couldn't tell anyone though, lest they think him as insane as he felt, and if they realized just what kinds of crazed thoughts ran through his head they might toss him in a padded room instead of shoving him in the animus each day. They claimed to need him, but if that was true why didn't they care about how easily he was losing his grip on reality? If he went insane, he was of no use to them anymore.

* * *

"The blacksmith's shop used to be here; a man by the name of Pietro. He had skilled hands that man, made some of the best throwing knifes I've ever seen." The Italian pointed to someplace but Desmond didn't bother to check and see just what he was supposed to look at.

"I know, I was there too. You seem to keep forgetting that I've seen a good deal of your memories." The night was chilly, too cold for the sweatshirt that he was wearing, but he could only get out and walk around modern-day Monteriggioni in the darkness where nobody was likely to see him. Besides, everyone had been forced to leave the warehouse so suddenly that they didn't have time to grab warmer clothes. Hell, Desmond hadn't known where they were going until they had reached this place, and now, walking the streets he had stood in hundreds of years ago, it was impossible to forget where he was.

If he was truly honest with himself he would tell the Assassin that he had liked Monteriggioni better the way it was before, back when Ezio had rebuilt it. Now, with stop signs and electric lights on every corner, it looked all wrong, like graffiti on a priceless work of art. Yes, things like cars and dishwashers made life a lot easier, but some places should just be left untouched because they were great to begin with. He sighed and tried to push his hands deeper into his sweatshirt pockets, but couldn't without tearing the fabric.

"Desmond?" His name sounded strange whenever Ezio said it, which was getting more and more frequent, as the visions became more frequent each time he left the animus. "Is something bothering you?"

_Yes_, he would have liked to behave been able to say. _Yes, my great-great-something-grandfathers have suddenly appeared to me right in front of my eyes in addition to all this shit I'm already dealing with. If I wasn't an Assassin, wanted by psychotic maniacs who don't mind killing me, being used by other Assassins as a chess piece, and having brain damage given to me by some weird machine, they'd lock me up on the top floor of Belleview with the other lunatics. So don't worry about me, really, I'm just slowly going insane and lying to myself about it._

"No, everything's fine. It's just a bit cold out tonight," was what he chose to say instead. "My ten minutes of freedom are nearly up anyway, let's head back before Shaun decides to yell at me again."

"I do not understand why they are forcing you to do this for them. Reliving our memories like this." Altair's accented voice was just as hard to get used to as Ezio's. "Do you not have a say in the matter?"

"Not really, no. I never really had a say in most of how my life went, that's why I ran away. Then I spent nine years in what I thought was freedom, but I was deluding myself, freedom is earned, not chanced upon," he sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "I guess it was only a matter of time before I got tangled up in this war, something I didn't even believe in until a few weeks ago. Yet even after all this, it doesn't seem real to me. I feel like everything up to right now has been one big, long dream. Hell, I could be dreaming right now, and I wouldn't even know it."

"You do not appear to be dreaming. Perhaps you could ask Lucy or Shaun about it if it worries you." Altair walked across the tops of buildings as though it were the ground while Ezio trailed slightly behind Desmond

"When does a dreamer know they're dreaming? Everything seems real until you wake up." It was the truth, and he'd honestly begun question just what was real and what wasn't for the past week or so. When he'd first started seeing things Lucy had assured him that it was normal and not something to worry about, but he did anyway. Especially when he collapsed and had his first trip into Altair's mind outside of the animus, witnessing something Desmond wasn't really sure he had ever wanted to see. Ever since then the visions had been a daily part of his life, with either one or both of his ancestors appearing out of nowhere and following him around, asking him questions about what a computer was and just what the Assassins and Abstergo were up to. Half of the time he couldn't answer their questions, and the rest of the time he didn't want to.

"Okay, something is definitely bothering you. What is it?" If Ezio were solid he would have laid a hand in Desmond's shoulder, or at least that's what he looked like he wanted it do. The man's eyes were wide with concern, causing him to look like a sad puppy with those dark brown irises of his.

"Chat time's over. Same time tomorrow night?" He had reached the door to where Mario's study had once been, and if he showed up talking to thin air at the very least Shaun would say some rude and annoying things to reinforce the fact that he found Desmond a less than helpful human being."

"Like we have a choice."

"I really enjoy this quality time we have together. I mean it." The bartender's snide remark made the Assassins frown, but if they said something in response he didn't hear it.


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed like people wanted me to continue this, and as I find this story somewhat therapeutic to write about I'm willing to write more. I hope this chapter is satisfactory.

I don't own Assassin's creed but a girl can dream.

* * *

"What did you do in that machine today? " Ezio asked Desmond this every time he left the machine; he seemed to find it more fascinating than disturbing that the man was reliving his own memories.

"I killed Frenchmen and stole their uniforms. Which is only slightly different from my usual adventures in killing people who want me dead." Tonight found the bartender on top of one of the towers surrounding the villa again, his legs dangling over the edge of the stone wall. This was a common hideout for him, too high up for anyone to see him, yet he could see all of Monterrigioni before him.

"Did you do it without getting detected? That was a tricky bit of work, took me a while to do that. Of course, I only had one try to get it right." For figments of a man's addled mind the Assassins hadn't lost the habit of keeping their weapons in top shape, as the Italian was now sharpening his dagger with a whetstone.

"Yes, after desynchronizing half a dozen times. You make it really hard for a guy to follow in your footsteps, you know that?"

"Maybe that is because I did not expect anyone to follow in my footsteps? When I had to do that myself I could never have dreamed there would be a way for people to relive the memories of those who came before them. Do you think of your descendants reliving parts of your life hundreds of years after you have breathed your last breath?"

"I don't think I'll have descendants, so no, no I don't think about it. If, god forbid, someone does have to see my memories, then I pity them. My life is shit, the most important thing that happened to me was getting kidnapped by Abstergo and triggering this whole ridiculous series of events. So they would live through me mixing drinks for people, spending time in the Animus, and talking to you two. Sounds like a blast."

"I do not understand?" It was Altair who spoke next, his voice cutting through the night like a knife through butter. "You do not think about having descendants? Why not?"

"I don't think I'll live that long honestly," Desmond replied. "With all this insane shit going on I'll be lucky to last another year. The Templars want to use me or kill me, I'm not sure exactly which, and the Animus is giving me brain damage. By the way, that caused the last guy who used it to go insane, and he ended up killing himself after writing messages in his own blood all over the walls. I don't know how crazy I've gotten so far, but talking to you guys, who have been dead for centuries, isn't a good sign."

There was silence after that, and Desmond half expected to find both men gone when he looked up, but they were still there, staring at him with, was it possible that they were pitying him? That was a new low, his ancestors, both of which had done so much and gone through so many hardships, felt bad for him, a bartender. He hadn't done anything worth mentioning, nothing of value, nothing that mattered. He had lived an empty life, and when the time came for him to join Altair and Ezio in whatever came after death he would leave no legacy behind him.

"If you fear losing yourself so much, why are you still talking to us? Would it not be easier to just ignore our words and act as though we are not here?" The Syrian seemed confused by what he'd heard.

"If that worked I'd do it," the bartender sighed. "The problem with that theory is that ignoring you guys does nothing, you don't go away, you don't leave me alone, therefore the problem is not solved."

"Is it possible that you do not mind our presence as much as you claim to?" This time it was Ezio who spoke, having sat down next to his descendent on the tower. "If we bothered you as much as you say we do you would ignore us, even though it would do nothing. To me it seems like you like having people to talk to, people who know what you've been through and won't call you mad despite this 'bleeding effect' you are affected by. You know that you can confide in us and not have us tell anyone, or get advice that might actually do something. Is this close to what you are feeling?"

Desmond didn't know how to respond, his throat hurt, it felt swollen somehow, and his hands were trembling. He had met several people who claimed to be able to read minds in his lifetime, hell, he'd pretended he could do it a couple times while mixing drinks to impress people, but no one had come close to guessing just what he was thinking, how could they, not knowing his past, what he'd been through, or even his real name. Ezio had known what was going through his head as if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud, and it was terrifying, to realize just what his view of the current situation was.

"I think it's time to head back, I haven't been sleeping well lately so I thought I should go to bed earlier and see if that helps. You understand what that's like, right?"

"Of course we do brother. Of course we do."

* * *

Desmond didn't know what was real anymore, how many of his memories actually belonged to him? That day he'd run away from the Farm was just as familiar to him as his confrontation with Rodrigo Borgia in the Vatican. He'd lived through both of those things, and every moment felt real, every sight and smell and action, who was he to say that he hadn't actually stood here in Monterrigioni with Ezio?

Did any of that actually happen though? The man couldn't answer that question, not honestly anyway, and he pulled his sweatshirt more tightly around him, wishing it were thicker. Did I even go into the Animus today? It feels like it happened yesterday, and yet a whole day has gone by without me noticing it. Hell, I don't even know what month it is anymore, let alone what day it is, my concept of time is practically nonexistent. He sighed and pressed his hands to his face, massaging his forehead where a nasty headache had been developing.

He hadn't meant to yell at Rebecca today, he was just so tired of everything that had happened in during however much time had passed between his kidnapping and now. He didn't want to become an Assassin, no matter what anyone said to him it wouldn't cause him to jump to his feet and follow every command he was given like some fucking dog. He was sick of going into the Animus and reliving his ancestor's memories, he was fed up with everyone treating him like an object rather than a person, and he was starting to dread waking up in the mornings, knowing it would only make him more miserable.

That stupid statue of Altair had bothered him ever since he'd first seen it in Ezio's memories; it was so smug looking, like he knew that nearly every person who looked at it would be overwhelmed by how awesome he had been. Yes, Altair had done a lot of great things during his life, there was no denying that; but did he really need to stand over everyone as a giant gloating statue? Was that really necessary? It didn't help much that the Altair who kept bugging Desmond both liked it because it was a huge honor, and hated it because it didn't look like him. The bartender agreed with the last part, a giant piece of carved stone and an illusion created by a delusional mind are not even close to the same thing.

Altair had been standing next to him while he checked everyone's emails, like hell was he going to skip out on the opportunity when it presented itself like a miracle, and had muttered something about how his nose wasn't that big when Desmond had reacted, forgetting that he was not alone.

"Wassa matta you Altair?" He'd asked the guy, and when Rebecca had shouted at him for being racist the only thing he could do was respond lamely. Then Lucy had complained about them wasting time and he... he just lost it. All the emotions he'd been feeling over the past few weeks exploded out of him, all the anger and bitterness and frustrating spewing forth as though it had been squirted out of a hose. He did refrain from talking about the bleeding effect though, and how fearful he was of going completely batshit crazy; he didn't think any of them, even Shaun, would be able to deal with that news and and not throw him into a padded room.

After his outburst both Altair and Ezio had complimented him for speaking his mind, when they weren't laughing about his dumb comeback or asking what "wassa matta you" meant. He'd also had to explain what racism was, and that took some time, it was a concept both Assassin's knew existed but didn't fully understand. Desmond didn't mind answering their questions, it distracted him so he didn't have to think about how miserable he was; it was a strange concept, talking to people who didn't exist in order to escape his own reality.

He heard footsteps behind him and realized that his ancestors were back. "What would you like to talk about now? I already told you guys that I wasn't going to explain how computers work, so don't think about asking me again."

"I've never asked you that Desmond." Lucy. It was Lucy. Shit. He had thought it was Ezio or Altair, no one ever bothered to talk to him besides those two anymore, but apparently he had been wrong. This was bad.

"Sorry," he mumbled lamely, not turning around to face her. "I thought you were someone else."

"You've been out here half an hour, we were getting worried about you."

"About me, or about losing the key to beating the Templars? I'm not sure what you care about more sometimes." It was the truth, a feeling inside him that had started out as a small voice in the back of his head and ended up turning into a weight hanging over himself, adding to the other problems he struggled with ever day.

"What are you talking about? Come back to the base, we can talk about this then." Lucy's face was hidden by the shadows of a nearby building so Desmond had no idea what she looked like, except for how she was shivering slightly in the cold fall weather.

"There's nothing to talk about," the bartender stood up from where he had been sitting on the partly-demolished roof of the Villa Auditore. When they had first arrived in Monterrigioni he had delved into the ruin of Ezio's former home and found several relics of the Assassin's adventures in this place. What he wouldn't have given to have seen this place in its prime, not just through his ancestor's eyes, but in person; he felt the same about Masyaf, Florence, Jerusalem, all of the places he'd visited in the animus. "We both know what needs to happen, and we both know that my feelings come in last on the list of what's most important. Talking about these things will change nothing and waste time better spent elsewhere, and we don't have much time to begin with."

He jumped off the roof to a pile of debris below him, then leapt off it and landed on the ground in a roll, a sign that the animus was helping to improve his skills, but at what cost? Lucy had used a ladder to climb up to the roof and descended it slowly, not taking her eyes off Desmond for a second.

"You know you can talk to me about anything right? Rebecca and Shaun are here for you as well, don't be afraid to confide in us if you need to. We're your allies Desmond. Trust us a little." She had joined the bartender where he stood, but before she could lay a hand on one of his shoulders he took off towards the entrance to Mario's office, not looking behind him. As soon as he was certain that he wouldn't be overheard he ran a hand through his short hair and sighed.

"You have no idea how wrong you are Lucy."

* * *

I updated What if the other day, yesterday I celebrated my birthday with my sister because it was her birthday too, and I'm updating this story today. I'm a nice writer. Know what a great gift would be? Reviews, or follows, or other stuff like that.

I can't believe I'm 20, holy crap.


	3. Chapter 3

"Desmond, are you okay? You look pale." Lucy's words brought him back to reality from thinking about a conversation he'd had with his ancestors. He'd stopped worrying as much about being overheard talking to them, he'd stopped caring about a lot of stuff to be honest. While the effects of animus overuse scared him he put those fears aside in order to focus on his goals, deciding that he would talk to the others if things got too bad. The bartender didn't know for sure just how bad the bleeding effect had to get for him to be deemed "useless," and he wasn't tempted to find out.

While his ancestors had stopped bugging him to an extent, the actual bleeding effect itself was getting worse, the hallucinations lasting longer and longer, memories becoming more and more muddled together. One day he was talking with Rebecca while Lucy and Shaun were out, well she did most of the talking while Desmond listened, but she'd started asking about what his life on the Farm had been like and for several scary seconds he was unable to remember his father's name.

_Giovanni_, his brain kept telling him, _your father is Giovanni Auditore, and you are Ezio Auditore, isn't that right?_ Then another part of him would say, _no, you are Altair Ibn La'Ahad, did you not live through his memories?_

_I'm Desmond,_ he was forced to chant over and over in his head, _Desmond Miles, son of William Miles, and I'm slowly losing my mind._

The bartender had asked for a notebook, and during his free time he began writing some sort of autobiography of everything he could remember of his past, because he wasn't sure how much longer he would remember it. Every night he would add more to the book in addition to rereading his earlier entries, but as the days passed the book seemed more like fiction than his past, as though it were a story he'd heard somewhere, and it terrified him. After an uneventful day in the animus he spent nearly an hour just writing his name over and over again, drilling it into his head that this was who he was, not Altair, not Ezio, but Desmond.

If the others had to have noticed his change of mood they didn't mention anything to him, it seemed to Desmond like hacking into their e-mail accounts was the only way to find out what was happening, since everyone else had decided without him that keeping him in the dark for some reason was the best thing to do. Sure they could talk to each other about the fact that he, Desmond, was screaming at nights and it worried them, but would they tell him that? Why should they? Apparently it wasn't on the list of things important to beating the Templars, insomnia and nightmares are hardly a concern in comparison to training their new pet into becoming an Assassin, like he was a fucking dog.

Just thinking about those nightmares gave the bartender chills, they were terrifying things, anyone would scream if they were in his place, if they had to deal with such horrors each time they closed their eyes. The dreams always started out the same, with Desmond standing in the same hideout his physical body lay in, except the room was no longer in shambles; beside him were Altair and Ezio, both men staring at him in disappointment.

"Why do you hate us?" They would ask in unison, their voices thin and high pitched in the silent room. The statues lining the walls seemed to glare as well, and Desmond found himself at a loss for words, the combined gazes of everyone was too much for him and after a period of time others would join them, nameless Assassins from Masyaf and Rome. They would join in with the others, staring and muttering questions Desmond couldn't answer, why was he doing nothing while others were fighting, why had he run away from his duty, why was he so pathetic?

It got to the point where he would only pretend to sleep at night, wait for the others to drift off, then walk away into the Auditore office and talk with his ancestors about their lives, their experiences, just to forget about how awful his own life was. The lack of rest combined with his constant use of the animus left Desmond feeling like a wrung-out towel, but he refused to say anything about it, or someone would tell him that he wasn't in any position to complain about things.

Lucy, Shaun, and Rebecca seemed to have forgotten that he hadn't asked for any of this craziness, not to be born an Assassin, not to be kidnapped and used by Abstergo, not to be rescued and used once more by people who were supposed to be on his side. The only decision he had made for himself was to run away all those years ago, it seemed like ages since he'd had something close to a normal life back in New York.

"There's no going back to that life," Desmond kept telling himself sadly. "Those days are gone for good." A part of him longed for those days, where the worst thing to happen to him might be a broken plate or glass rather than hallucinations and further torments. Yes, he lived inconstant fear of being found out, but he did that that even now, and took way too many precautions for any sane person, but there was comfort in that overly paranoid routine he'd had.

* * *

Comfort was something he longed for lately, as his days were full of sitting in the animus, his nights spent sleeping on an uncomfortable bed made of whatever could be salvaged from the Villa Auditore. The ten minutes he was able to walk outside gave him something to look forward to, but with each passing day he drew closer to finishing up Ezio's memories of Rome and when that happened he felt that something terrible would occur.

Inside the animus he tried to draw things out by discovering about Ezio's hidden memories of Christina, memories which made him pity the man greatly, to lose someone he'd loved not only to another man, but to death as well. He spent a good deal of time searching for the hidden messages from subject 16 as well as training the Brotherhood's new recruits, who seemed so innocent compared with Ezio and Altair, their pasts unburdened with horrors that would leave a grown man with nightmares. Even so, he could tell that there was only a week or less left before he would be finished.

"We need to talk Desmond." To the former bartender's surprise it was Shaun who confronted him rather than Lucy or Rebecca. "You're starting to worry the girls, what with the nightmares you seem to be having, and lately you've been talking to people who aren't there and lying to us when we catch you doing so. What's going on? Is it the bleeding effect? You're not going to pull a subject 16 on us are you?"

"Leave me alone Shaun. Who asked you to do this?" Desmond wasn't in the mood to talk about such sensitive things, especially not with the historian who seemed to think him a waste of attention. "It was Becca wasn't it?"

"I'm not going to lie and say I'm doing this out of the kindness of my heart alright? Both of them are worried about you, and honestly you're taking too much time in the animus for our liking. We don't know when Abstergo will find us alright? We need to get you through his memories and find out everything we can before that happens, and with you dawdling by going on missions with the recruits you're putting everyone's lives at risk here! Do you want to die?" Shaun's words hurt, there was no denying that, but he spoke the truth, by avoiding finishing up Ezio's memories he was putting everyone in danger of being caught by Abstergo, and that wasn't fair to any of them.

"I'm fine, now leave me alone. I'll wrap things up in the next few days, is that alright with you, or do you have something else to bother me about. I know you don't actually care about my well-being Shaun, nice try though."

"You are hesitant to go through my memories? Why?" Ezio asked later that night, brushing a hand over his goatee.

"I just feel like something bad will happen once I finish them, something really, really bad. I can't put it off any longer though, it's not right for me to put the others lives in danger because of me, it's selfish, especially since I don't particularly care about dying or not anymore."

"Stop talking about death as if it's something you have control over. When it comes time for your life to end you'll be wishing for more time, to go back and change the past, prevent something foul from happening and make yourself a better ending," the Italian's voice was somber, and Desmond knew he was speaking from experience, whether it was his family he thought of, or Cristina, or some other memory he hadn't lived through yet there was no way of knowing. "But life doesn't work like that, you have to live with the decisions you make and live one day at a time hoping for the best."

"Sorry, it's just... my life has been so messed up I've kind of given up on hoping for a good ending to this story."

"I agree with Ezio, there are so many moments where I think 'if only things had gone differently.' There are just so many things I would change, so many things I wish could have happened instead." Altair's voice was also full of regret, which caused Desmond to wonder just what things the Syrian had dealt with for him to sound like that, surely it wasn't just because of the incidents at Solomon's Temple and discovering the horrible truth about Al Mualim. "You are still young Desmond, with so much ahead of you, live in the moment while you still can. There may come a time when you cannot live anymore and we do not want you to die with regrets like us."

* * *

A few days later Desmond came to the end of Ezio's memories of Rome, the recovery of the Apple and the fight with the Borgia, the deaths of Cesare and his father, ending with the discovery of the Vault beneath the Colosseum. Then their group was off, finally having a destination and a goal once more seemed to reinvigorate everyone except Desmond, and for good reason, they still didn't know about the horrible feeling he had. It was a sinking in his gut that made him want to run away from everything and curl up in a ball until he felt sure of what was what again. Unfortunately there was no time to sort out just what he was dealing with and with Lucy, Shaun, and Becca nearby he couldn't talk to Ezio or Altair about how he was feeling.

Inside the vault was amazing, it seemed impossible for something so incredible to have been around during Ezio's time and yet here it was, with its elaborate security measures to keep trespassers or Templars from getting inside and acquiring the Apple for themself. It took several tries for Desmond to get past them all and once the Apple was in front of him the horrible feeling in his gut was back, telling him not to touch it or something terrible would happen. For once his ancestors were silent as he approached the Piece of Eden, but they were with him and he knew that they would be, come whatever happened in that big chunk of the unknown he called the future.

* * *

Welp, this is the end, sorry if it's a bit of a cliffhanger but there was no really good way to wrap this up without having some kind of foreshadowing in there. The last bit was really hard to write because of what happens in canon, I wish I could make a happy ending for Desmond, but sadly there's not one in canon.

I hope you guys enjoyed this fic and will continue to read what I write.


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